The Monster Inside
by SoVeryEasilyAmused
Summary: Things are heating up for Dexter Morgan. The FBI/BAU are on his tail, the Ice Truck Killer is forcing him to remember things from his past, and there's something up with Deb's new boyfriend.
1. Prologue Part 1

The Monster Inside

Rating: M (18+)

Pairings: Dexter/Rita, Deb/Brian (Rudy)

Warnings: Deb's potty mouth, Doakes' potty mouth, violence/gore/blood. In other words: basic Dexter-stuff.

Summary: Things are heating up for Dexter Morgan. The FBI/BAU are on his tail, the Ice Truck Killer is forcing him to remember things from his past, and there's something up with Deb's new boyfriend.

Notes:

This is a season one AU-ish work with bits and pieces of later seasons thrown in for plot. If you recognize it, then I don't own it. There, that's my disclaimer. There are spoilers for season one in here, and some for later seasons since I plopped some later events into the season one timeline. So be warned.

This is also a minor crossover with Criminal Minds – the BAU characters are in this, but they're not the main focus of this story. They will not be main characters, nor will their show be the focus here.

Oh, and this is my first Dexter fanfiction and my first time writing in first person P.O.V. I usually don't. Hope it doesn't scare anyone away!

Constructive criticism is appreciated. I have this nasty habit of jumping around and not remembering what I've already written. If you notice anything repeated unnecessarily or anything that doesn't make sense, please let me know so I can fix it!

Prologue was too long (nine pages), so I broke it into two parts so you (and i) wouldn't be overwhelmed.

Not beta-read.

ATTENTION:

I am looking for a beta reader for this fic. I'm hoping to find someone before I post the second part of this prologue.

I need someone that is Dexter-knowledgeable and can read through what I have (roughly ten chapters following this prologue, total of 80 some pages.) I'm mostly looking for someone to proof it to make sure it reads properly. That I'm not too OOC, that I'm putting enough detail throughout, that I'm not repeating things or leaving things out, and that it just flows.

I would prefer someone who knows the fandom. Someone who has beta read before and/or who has stories out that I can check out. I would prefer this person be a beta reader on .

The story is pretty much finished and I'm just going through the chapters to make sure I'm satisfied enough to send them out. I'm hoping to have one chapter out per week so that's my timeline, I guess. I would prefer to work out one chapter at a time – send it to you, have you look it over, have you send back suggestions and/or corrections, discuss it if needed. Then I post.

I wasn't going to ask for a beta reader but I think that this one needs it. I would like to have someone to tell me if things don't make sense, if I need to clarify something or another, if I need to expand on something, and so on.

Hoping to hear from someone soon! Enjoy the fic! If I don't hear from a beta reader then I'll post chapters one per week and go from there.

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Prologue

(Part One)

_The Bay Harbor Butcher_, I hear people murmuring as I stand and watch the spectacle that is my underwater grave being unearthed.

It had a nice ring to it. Some serial killers got stuck with half assed names made up by reporters that really should have paid attention in their college creative writing courses. If they even took them. I'm assuming many didn't: that's journalism for you. No creativity required.

I didn't. Get stuck with a half-assed name, that is. Thank God if He even exists. I would have had to blow my cover just to make sure that I didn't go down in history as The Miami Slicer or something equally shitty and unremarkable. How humiliating would that have been?

Then again, the establishment of a moniker means that the serial killer in question has been discovered. Being discovered was never my intention. It's the first rule of Harry's Code after all: _don't get caught_.

Oops.

"I can't fucking believe this! We barely solve the Castillo murder and then we get this fuck mine of body parts." That would be my darling sister, Debra, just arriving to the scene. She had the habit of stating the obvious. She also had a potty mouth that could make even a sailor blush. She had absolutely no shame, though I guess it's no surprise considering she grew up with a cop for a dad and a sociopath for a brother.

A tenth Hefty bag is moved onto a rolling cart. This one splits down the side and there is a chorus of groans as a waterlogged arm, only partially decomposed, falls to the ground with a wet splat. Even I flinch a little. It's disgusting. These bags where never meant to see the light of day again.

"Okay people, we need to move a little more carefully!" Detective Angel Batista berated from the sidelines as forensic techs moved to clean up the disgusting mess. "Morgan," We both look at him in unison and he rolled his eyes before motioning to Deb. "Her. Sorry, Dex." He clarified. "I'm heading down to the pier where the boat is ferrying these bags in from where they're pulling them up. Heard there's at least a dozen more to come in, if not more. I want you and Doakes to oversee this mess – he's waiting for you in the overflow morgue."

James Doakes was Deb's senior-most partner when she wasn't paired with Batista, and he was already stationed inside the portable morgue to oversee the placement of the rolling gurneys. Most likely waiting for her. He wasn't going to be happy that she got distracted outside, especially not because that distraction was me.

You see, Doakes didn't like me all that much. He claimed that I 'creeped him out'. Imagine that, me giving somebody the creeps. The feeling of dislike was mutual by this point – he was a loud, crass, bully of a cop. Even if I didn't creep him out I doubt we would have been anywhere close to 'friends'.

"Got it!" Deb shouted, nearly blowing out my eardrum. I stuck a finger in that ear and wiggled it a little bit. "So, what's your view on this Dex? You getting any of your hunches?"

Ah, my 'hunches'. They weren't really hunches but whispers and feelings from what Harry called my 'Dark Passenger': the primal darkness in me that fueled my urge to kill and didn't allow me to feel normal human emotion, create normal connections, or have any sort of moral compass.

I believe psychiatrists would call it 'sociopathy' – or they would think I had split personalities, which I didn't, or that I heard and talked to voices, which I don't. I liked to call this Dark Passenger… my instincts. Plain and simple.

Regardless of what it actually was, having this 'Dark Passenger' gave me an edge that most individuals didn't have when it came to tracking down killers and figuring them out. It made me really good at my job – blood spatter analyst and forensic geek for Miami Metro PD – and it helped me find my victims, hunt them down, and then kill them with a quick and brutal effectiveness all the while not getting caught. Win-win situation for all involved, I thought.

But Debra didn't know that, and if I had it my way she never would. I would let her think that these 'hunches' – and my charming personality, perfect for idea bouncing and late night musings - where what helped her out of vice and into homicide. Don't get me wrong, she was a great cop – she took after dad in that way – but she had lousy people skills and didn't know how to play the game. Without my help she might still be in the sex suit.

"Nope." I lied without remorse. "Haven't even seen the bodies, decomposing arm excluded, so no hunches yet. Sorry sis." I shoved my hands in my pockets. There would be no hunches on this one, of course, because these kills are all mine. My legendary hunches would lead Deb and the PD to me, and that just wasn't going to happen.

It was time to refer back to Harry's advice;

"_Think about what you're going to say, and then say the exact opposite. That's how you're going to survive in this world."_

Harry was a smart man.

So that's what I would do, this time. Instead of giving helpful hunches I would give them clues pointing away from the killer – me. Anti-hunches, if you will. Or I just wouldn't get involved at all. Since there was no blood spatter it wouldn't be odd for me to take a back seat and leave the tech work for our lead forensic technician, Vince Masuka, to do.

Of course, I would keep a close eye on the proceedings to make sure that I was in the clear. Another benefit to working for the police: I would have a heads up if they ever caught on to me. Take now, for example.

"You seem amped up about this one." I finally mused. Deb was watching the goings on keenly, and I recognized that look.

"With the Ice Truck Killer on, well, ice… this is the next biggest case. Probably even bigger than ITK! I mean, the fucking body count alone has to be higher already and they haven't pulled everything up." I nodded in agreement.

The Ice Truck Killer: Miami's most notorious serial killer of the century (excluding me). Over the past two months he had left bodies perfectly dismembered and completely bloodless for me to puzzle over. And puzzle over it I did, along with the rest of Miami Metro, until he made it personal by breaking into my apartment and leaving a dismembered doll in my freezer next to my bacon wrap.

Its head had been glued to my freezer door for everyone to see. The whole set up practically screamed at me: he wanted to play.

And so did i.

The Ice Truck Killer: my playmate.

After the playful discover in my freezer he disappeared for almost a week. Gearing up, no doubt, for something big I thought. I was right: the moment Deb had someone in custody claiming his kills, he made splashy comeback – no doubt taunting the PD and laughing scornfully at the wannabe sitting in holding at the same time - by decorating a hotel room with the blood of his victims. Pardon the pun. Blood humor.

Something like this should have delighted me – I was the blood guy after all – but as soon as I stepped foot into the blood drenched room it nearly sent me into a panic attack complete with screaming voices and crying and roaring with the stench of copper and smoke. I had to work that particular scene from the hallway. The hallway! It was embarrassing. I don't know what his game was there but I didn't appreciate it one bit – and still don't.

But ever since that blood filled room nearly two months ago he hadn't killed again. He completely dropped off the map. Leaving me highly disappointed and wondering what had happened to him. Had he been arrested? Had he met another serial killer that was more powerful than him, was that even possible? Or was he waiting for something – something to do with the visions that bloody room had left me?

Ah, the visions. Thanks to that blood soaked hotel room whenever I closed my eyes now I could see a boy covered in blood and crying as something roared in the background. Try as I might – though admittedly I didn't really try that hard, I mostly wanted the boy to go away - I couldn't see anything else and it frustrated me. A new feeling for me, and not one that was appreciated.

"Plus, the fucking dismembered body parts? Might be linked!" Deb was now bouncing on the balls of her feet, jolting me out of my reverie. "Maybe they're his earlier victims? He could have evolved, right? This could be his fucking dump site!" I nodded along as she rambled, knowing that she was wrong but playing along like the good older brother I was.

"Morgan!" We both glanced over to the portable morgue to see Doakes in the doorway. He gave me the evil eye even as I realized that my internal monologue distracted me from the rest of the bags being unloaded and moved. Huh. "Not you, you fucking creep." Oh, he wanted Deb then. They really needed to learn how to elaborate when Deb and I where in the same vicinity. Masuka peeked around him and shrugged at me. Deb shot me an apologetic look and I waved her off to join him and Masuka in the morgue.

I almost went with them, but I really don't want to be around Doakes right now and he would protest my being there since Masuka didn't officially ask for me. Protocol, you know. I was the blood spatter expert, other than that I was Masuka's sidekick when called upon. Until I was officially invited in – or until I officially begging to be invited in - I had to find something else to focus on.

And I think I knew what that something else was going to be.

TBC

_Rough Count_

_Pages: 5_

_Words: 1,715_


	2. Prologue Part 2

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Prologue

Part Two

Paul Bennett. Rita's abusive rapist soon-to-be-ex-husband. Recently released from jail due to overcrowding. He wouldn't leave the kids - or Rita - alone. He kept showing up at the house, at the kids' school, at the playground. He wouldn't listen to Rita's polite requests to leave them alone, or to at least call ahead. He was quickly becoming a pest, one that needed to be squashed.

Rita is my girlfriend of six months, by the way. Deb introduced us. She's perfect – for my cover, and for me. She's a sweet girl, and those kids where great. I always liked kids. It didn't hurt that their mother had absolutely no interest in sex, which suited me just fine. I enjoyed being with her, sans sex, as much as I could enjoy anything I suppose.

But Paul was a complication I didn't need. He was a threat to me and to the small family that I had slowly become a part of, so I had to do something about him.

I walked away from the portable morgue and made my way inside the main precinct, wondering what could be done. Even as fucked up as he was he didn't fit Harry's code, so I couldn't kill him. Which was a bummer because that would be the easiest fix. No one would really miss him except for Astor and Cody, and even they would get over his disappearance at some point. Not even law enforcement would take his disappearance seriously – it would just be assumed that he took off as junkies tended to do.

But he wasn't a killer, just low level pond scum, so Harry wouldn't approve. I had to find another way.

I made my way into my office to finish up some last minute paperwork and then I locked everything up and left, in the clear to go search Paul's rental shack for some sort of clue. The PD was practically deserted as I left, what with everybody surrounding the Butcher case. Even the lot was deserted except for the few cars parked way down at the end where the portable morgue was set up. But for all the emptiness that was the PD lot, the traffic getting to Paul's was a bitch.

And Paul's place really was a shack, I thought, as I finally pulled into the lot twenty minutes later than I should have. I parked the car and snuck around to the back. The sliding back door popped open with ease and I grimaced at the unkempt squalor. It almost wasn't worth it to do this. Gloves on I began to poke around, and it didn't take me long to find what I was looking for. Evidence: a loaded gun and a box of ammo in the dresser. And, by the bed, a bottle of booze. Nothing else, but the loaded gun was a big strike against a parolee.

Bad Paul.

I left the place as I found it and checked my phone. Dinnertime. And there where several missed calls and two voicemails. As I got in the car I dialed my voicemail and was treated to Deb's colorful language. Apparently they pulled up all the bags they could find and there where a whopping 40 of them. Then Masuka was telling me to take the rest of the day off, but to come in early the next morning to help him assemble the parts and collect evidence.

An official invite into the case. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? Equal parts, I imagine.

Since I had already spent the previous night with Rita and the kids I called her up to check in – did Paul cause any trouble today, dinner tomorrow like usual if I can get away from work? – and then surrounded myself in the silence and peace of my apartment. I didn't have the time to do anything else tonight - about Paul or otherwise - so I used the night to double-check my kill tools.

Meticulously clean, as always. I was even stocked up on duct tape, plastic sheeting, and Hefty bags.

After a peaceful nights sleep I rushed to get to the temporary morgue. I dressed in shitty clothes in case of body fluid spillage, grabbed a bagel and some coffee. No donuts today – sorry Miami Metro – and I think I might have broken my best record getting to work. Masuka still beat me there, though, I could see him standing at the entrance of the port morgue. Waiting for me, apparently. No dirty jokes or silly chuckle, today. He was grim faced.

"So, our first task of the day is to get all these body parts lined up." He was saying as he led me into the cooled unit. We donned rubber aprons, sleeve protectors, gloves, and then I got the first glimpse of my victims since I dumped them over the side of my boat. Many of the bags where still more or less in tact, but some were split open. There where piles of bones from my earlier kills, and some fleshy parts in fairly decent condition from my more recent kills. All where in bins on top of the metal tables

"Okay, so what's the plan?" I asked as we snapped our heavy-duty rubber gloves on over the traditional latex gloves.

"We're going to go table to table. Pull the bins off, remove the parts, take samples and tag them – the samples and the parts - put the parts on the table, move on to the next. When we get the results – LaGuerta has the orders in to rush them – we come back and start putting the body parts together while the DNA runs through the database for IDs." He grabbed a rolling cart stuffed to the brim with markers and tools.

"Like putting together a giant jigsaw puzzle." I commented. Masuka finally giggled that weird chuckle-giggle of his and we moved to the first table. A number "1" was taped to the front leg. He shoved the cart at me.

"I'm going to remove the limbs from the bins and take the samples. You hand me the markers, tools, and store the samples after writing them on the pad." I nodded even as Masuka dragged the first of two bins down from the table. After that, it was silent except for Masuka reading out numbers or giving me directions. Masuka was uncharacteristically serious from there on out and we had the first table finished by lunchtime.

"We're no where near done." I noted as we paused for a breather. Six rows of six, with two bins per table. Thirty-six tables, seventy-two bins in all. Anywhere from two to four bags per bin. I knew there where 46 bodies in total. They didn't. This was going to be a bitch to finish. It could take a week, or maybe more, at the pace we where moving.

So yeah, I was very successful at the killing thing. And no that isn't pride you hear… okay, so maybe it is.

"Lunch break?" Masuka asked. My high metabolism agreed. It was time for lunch, and then just maybe I could convince him to move a little bit faster so we could get out in time for me to join Rita and the kids for dinner.

TBC

_Rough Count_

_Pages: 4_

_Words: 1,214_

Notes:

Sorry it took so long to get out, but I got slammed at work on top of 18 inches of snow/ice, so I was a bit distracted.


End file.
